Stray and Enchanted
by just-passing-time
Summary: Betrayed by the woman he loved, Alistair deserts to wander aimlessly and alone. When chance presents itself, he finds the opportunity to either reclaim the woman he had loved or attain the closure needed to move on. Each is not without their own cost.
1. Chapter 1

Stray and Enchanted

Chapter 1

_Alistair had remained impassive as Loghain was brought to his knees, Elissa's sword resting on his shoulder. He had bit his tongue as she had not immediately dealt the killing blow, her usually steady hands faltering as the senior Grey Warden, Riordan, called for her to cease. _

_Alistair could not, however, remain voiceless as Riordan tarnished everything he had ever believed in. He could not stand by as the woman he loved considered welcoming Duncan's murderer into their order as their brother. _

"_Anyone with the skill and mettle to take up the sword against the darkspawn is welcome amongst us," Riordan had issued pointedly. _

_Alistair would have no part in it. _

_He'd said as such, his eyes pleading with Elissa as he reminded her of the numerous evils Loghain had committed. He reminded her of Duncan's death, reminded her that Loghain had forsworn their very order; hunting them across the far reaches of Ferelden. Were their positions reversed, Loghain would not have offered them any mercy. _

_Elissa had heard him out silently, but her blue eyes had been steely with resolute determination. She had made up her mind and nobody, not even he, could sway her. _

_She had agreed to Riordan's terms, removing her blade from the kneeling Teyrn's shoulder. She had cast him one final look of rueful pain before turning back to Riordan and Duncan's murderer with hollow eyes. _

_And so Alistair had left. _

_That had been the last time he had laid eyes upon the only woman he had ever loved. The last time he'd seen the man who had destroyed everything he had ever held dear. _

_Without him they became the saviours of Ferelden. Without him they became heroes. _

_They became heroes as he wandered; a shell of the valiant man he had once been. He wandered, alone in his hatred and self-pity. _

.. .. ..

Nayla straightened her back with a sigh, flexing her shoulders to ease her cramped muscles. She tossed the soapy bar rag into the water pail and glanced around the near empty inn.

The Yellow Wyvern was quiet this warm night. The few usual patrons of the tavern were present, but the hustle and bustle that should have taken place after a long day of work was not. It came as no shock to Nayla. Those that had the money had travelled to Denerim, jubilant with dreams of seeing the noble hero of Ferelden with their own eyes.

Nayla had scarcely managed to keep up to date with the progress and state of her country, the time between traders and merchants growing from weeks into months. She had found herself wondering, on more than one occasion, how long it would take for her remote town to realise if the country had in fact fallen to the darkspawn. Eventually, however, heralds and hawk carriers spread the news to the far reaches of Ferelden, telling of the killing of the Archdemon at the hands of the final two Grey Wardens; Elissa Cousland, and their town's Teyrn; Loghain Mac Tir.

It was odd, us such, that a stranger sat amidst the sparse regulars this quiet night. With but a glance, Nayla knew that this haggard man did not belong amongst the loggers and fishermen of Gwaren. Whilst it was true that his hands were rough and his shoulders strong, his hooded cloak and the tell tale bulk of hidden weapons pinned him as an outsider. He did not bear the insignia of the yellow wyvern, which would have marked him as one of the town's guardsmen, bringing Nayla to wonder at his elaborate state of arms.

He'd yet to order anything from the bar; choosing to quietly sit atop one of the splintered old stools at the end of the long narrow bench. Others sat in groups, three loggers occupying the far corner with a round of ale, and two fishermen from the docks enjoying some warm stew at one of the tavern's tables.

Nayla had occupied her hands with the cleaning of some freshly lacquered oak mugs, the dry towel so grey with dirt that it almost negated the well meant notion. It was as she cleaned that the lone man motioned to her with an upraised hand, as silent as he had been the moment he'd walked in. She made no step closer at his beckon, nonchalantly continuing her cleaning.

"Some ale?" she queried of him with a raised brow.

She watched him from beneath the barrier of brown hair that had fallen before her eyes. He said nothing in reply, merely nodding as he held up two fingers.

Throwing aside the towel, Nayla emptied the warm ale into two newly cleaned mugs from the barrel behind the bench top. Biting at her bottom lip she carried the ale to him with trained hands, heavily placing them on the chipped counter before him.

He grunted in an ill-attempt at manners, reaching for the first of the two from beneath the folds of his great cloak.

Nayla lent against the bar, unconsciously pulled her long matted hair behind the visibly pointed tips of her elven ears, openly trying to distinguish anything beyond the shadows of the hood. Bloodshot eyes, pale skin, and an unruly blonde beard were all that she could clearly make out.

He ignored her probing stare, downing half the contents of the mug in one pull. He made no move the wipe the liquid that had escaped the corners of his lips onto his beard.

Nayla had worked at the bar for the majority of her life, receiving no days of leave or weekends for rest. She worked for her food and a roof over her head. Such experience had left her able to seize up customers fairly suitably. The trait had allowed her to know when it was time to encourage an increasingly drunk patron to head home, or to know the likely candidates that would seek to cause trouble enhanced by the liquid courage that she served. The quality also allowed her to pin point those that did, and those that did not, have the money to pay for what they drank.

This man did not.

He forcefully placed the mug back atop the bar, the dry oak soaking up most of the spilt ale upon his ungainly placement. He dragged his backhand across his chin, half-heartedly whipping aside residue of the ale that had begun to drip from his beard down his front.

Nayla extended her hand when he reached for the mug next. Her slender fingers wrapped around his wrist, disallowing him from continuing his drink.

"You got some coins for that, stranger?" she probed. "This ain't a charity. Four copper bits, even."

Sighing, he reached for his person, his arms falling behind the counter of the bar. When they appeared next they were not grasping coins as Nayla had silently hoped, but the metallic white and blue plated gauntlet that had previously armed his left forearm. He dropped it atop the counter, silently returning to his ale and downing the last of it.

She picked up the armour with both hands; the item lighter than it appeared, appraising it with unqualified eyes. Shaking her head ruefully, Nayla reached with her free hand for the second mug, pulling it back across the counter and out of his range.

"Look," she started in exasperation. "Maybe I didn't make myself clear enough. This here ain't a pawn shop, just as sure as it ain't a charity. It's a business, and if I don't make budget, I don't get dinner. No money, no alcohol. Savvy?"

He made no motion to reach for a hidden coin purse, nor did he reclaim his armour. He simply issued a dry chuckle, the mere effort sending him swaying on his stool. The telltale rock told Nayla that he'd been drinking well before stumbling into this tavern. He'd probably already been thrown out of the Bronze down near the docks, she readily deduced.

"Bold for an elf," he muttered.

Nayla had been momentarily shocked by how young the voice was. Barely an adult, she assumed.

She did not, however, have time to retort in reply to such a comment, the large tavern owner choosing then to make an appearance from behind her. The door that led to his home establishment, which had been built onto the tavern itself, clicked shut behind him.

He was human, William, and large even by their standards. He had founded the tavern before Nayla had been born, the man's age showing in the white highlights of his beard, the spots of his aging skin, and the recent forming of his rather round belly, long ago having lost the activeness of youth.

"Stop talking and get back to work, elf," he barked.

Whilst the man meant well, he had never come to fully accept Nayla, something she had come to expect and had grown quite accustomed to. Such was the life of an elf, a second-class citizen in Ferelden. He made her disposability to both him and the running of the tavern known, each elf being the same as the last. Despite all this, however, he had yet to throw her out.

Nayla knew this had less to do with any feelings of responsibility on his behalf, and more to do with his wife. Whilst William may well be the head that regulated all that transpired beneath the roof of the Yellow Wyvern, his wife was the neck that silently controlled which way he turned.

The older woman, Elaine, cared on some level for Nayla. She had always ensured that Nayla had food to fill her belly, clothes to hold her warmth, and a roof to keep her dry as long as she worked for her keep. The reasons for having initially taken an interest in the orphaned beggar girl all those years ago remained unforseen to the elf, however.

"Would if I could," Nayla replied, her eyes downcast, "but this guy 'ere won't pay for his share of ale with _standard_ Ferelden currency."

William's dark eyes fell on that of the stranger, his expression stern. Nayla stepped back, unconsciously grasping the gauntlet tightly in a two-handed grip. The metal was cool to the touch and the craftsmanship was smooth, but rust and grime was building amongst the crevices and fissures of the armour due to a considerable lack of care.

"The gauntlet is made of Silverite; it will fetch you a hefty sum on any market," the man offered flatly, "My drink?"

Sighing, William approached Nayla, relieving her of her burden. He studied the piece of armour momentarily before chuckling, a foreign sound to Nayla's tipped ears.

"Well, I'll be damned," he muttered under his breath.

When next he looked up, William's yellowed teeth were glistening in the low candlelight of the tavern, his lips pulled back in a smile.

"Give 'im what he wants, elf," he issued, "and then get back to work, this place looks like a sty."

"Right," Nayla replied through a sigh.

Chuckling and enwrapped in the visage of the armour in his hands, William left back through the door to his home, disregarding his reason for having initially entered the tavern main.

Once the door was firmly shut and the sound of a latch falling into place clicked, Nayla pushed the mug back into the man's awaiting hands.

"Make the most of it, stranger," she started. "He's not going to be in a giving mood like that again. Not unless you reveal that you can crap gold too. I'll set you up a room when you're ready."

With a tilt of his head, he silently knocked back the contents of his mug in one guzzle, finishing with a hearty belch. Slamming down the empty mug he sighed, his steady sway increasingly evident.

"Just keep them coming," he issued flatly.

Retrieving the mugs and refilling each, she returned to him with a ruthful shake of her head.

"Just try not to vomit on the bar, you hear? It takes an age to rinse out the stench," Nayla warned him.

She left him to his ale, topping up the last of the patron's mugs without further hassle, and went about cleaning the leavings of those that had already come and gone. It was only when he was the last person left that she again paid him any extra attention.

He sat in a ring of empty mugs, his head resting atop the bar, cushioned by his arms. His hood had fallen from his head at some point, but the majority of his face was still hidden by his folded forearms.

Nayla cleaned away the last of his mugs, his form all the while unmoving as she worked about him. It was only when the tavern was locked up and all was quiet that she dared to breathe a sigh of relief.

It was with strained muscles and heavy lids that Nayla approached the stranger, resting a hand on his arm.

"Come on, Shem," she urged. "I'm sure you'd rather a bed than a rickety old stool, ey?"

He moaned, looking up from his folded arms with unfocused brown eyes. His cheeks were tainted with a pink hue from the alcohol consumption, and his blonde beard was damp from the ale. But, through the dirt and sweat that made his shaggy hair stick to his forehead, Nayla knew that this man, with forgotten creases from a lifetime of laughing, had once been handsome. His abuse of liquors had aged him beyond his years; the man, on very close inspection, looking to be merely in his mid twenties.

"What? 'Lissa?" he slurred groggily.

His eyes were still hazy, as if he were still trapped in the dreamscape Fade.

Nayla's humourless chuckle seemed to awaken him fully, it taking only a moment for his eyes to finally focus on her own; eventual recognition settling in. Groaning, a large calloused hand went to his forehead to wipe aside the dirty sweat that had settled there with an equally unclean palm.

"It's you," he said blearily, a hint of frustration underlying his tone.

"Yep; me," the elf replied, rolling her light hazel eyes. "Though, I do prefer Nayla."

He said nothing more, his lids finally drooping closed before his head fell back atop the bar. A dull thud resounded within the tavern. Nayla instinctively cringed at the sound despite the man showing no outward recognition of pain.

Nayla sighed heavily, wanting nothing more than to go to her room and sleep through what remained of the night. It was not often that she got a tavern room for herself, sometimes having to settle for the hay bails that were piled beneath the cover of the horse stalls. Only now, there being so few patrons that weren't locals visiting the Yellow Wyvern, were there rooms to spare.

Determination clear in her eyes, Nayla curled her fingers around his upper left arm. She pushed with all of her might, the bulk of the man great. He murmured in reply to her effort, unconsciously shrugging her off without any exertion on his behalf.

Hands on her hips, she felt any lingering patience she had leaving her.

"Come on, Shem," she issued, "You cannot stay here. William'll have my hide if he knows I've let a drunkard like you sleep within arms length of his drinks."

He grunted in reply, groggily lifting himself from the stool in one jerky motion. He halted for a moment; an attempt at regaining his balance and orientation of the world.

With a steadying hand, Nayla ushered him to the flight of stairs leading up to the tavern's rooms. He dragged his feet and had to stop often to steady himself, slowing the process. Nayla, barely half of his size in both directions, followed from his side, her hand merely steadying him as they advanced up the staircase.

"It's odd that you're all the way down here in Gwaren," Nayla commented. "You're missing out on the coronation of Anora, the presentation of the new hero of Ferelden, and the funeral of our town's very own Teyrn; Loghain Mac Tir."

The observation was more for her ears than for the barely conscious mans own, filling in the eerie silence with her own inquisitive speculations. He made no attempt to quench her curiosity.

The stranger, without warning, halted his already slow progression up the stairs. Silently, he heaved forwards, retching all of his previously consumed ale. The acidic fumes of the clear liquid caused Nayla's eyes to burn as she gripped the man's arm in a tight, yet reassuring, hold.

"Who am I to talk?" she muttered with a dry chuckle. "You've got your own one man party going on right here. Denerim will be jealous."

He did nothing to wipe the remains of his stomach's uprising from his beard, merely continuing up the remainder of the stairs, as silent as he had been before. Once the stairs had been braved, she ushered him to the first door, unlocking it with her own master key.

The room within was dark, the only light coming from the torches that hung in the steel brackets along the hallway's walls. It was plain; complete with an empty chest placed at the foot of a small mattress stuffed with hay from the stables, a deceivingly comfortable home made pillow filled with old down, and an itchy flea-ridden cotton blanket with more stains than Nayla could count.

"You've been ripped off for that bracer of yours, if you ask me, Shem," she said, somewhat apologetically, through a chuckle.

His voice was as sudden as it was deep, causing Nayla to give a small jolt.

"If you call me Shem, does that mean I get to call you knife-ears?"

It was not only the suddenness of his comment that took Nayla by surprise, but his unexpected words had rung with newfound clarity. Maybe that purging of alcohol on the stairs did him good, she found herself thinking.

His opinion of her double standard left Nayla smirking.

"Then give me a name to go by, Shem, and I'll use it," she offered, "Deal?"

He chuckled, the sound quickly turning into a hacking cough that made his whole body shudder. Nayla encouraged him into the room, her hand still steady on his arm. They were by the bedside when his fit of coughing ceased, silence falling about them once more.

"Al," he offered suddenly, his voice wavering. "I'm Alistair."

* * *

Reviews are always greatly appreciated.

I hope you enjoyed thefirst chapter of many. I've pre-written them all this time, so I won't get bored a few chapters in like I usually do.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Nayla walked down the hall, a bound in her step. She'd overslept, the sun already high in the clear sky, but she felt all the better for it. She stifled a snigger as she pounded playfully on the tavern's single guest's door on the way past. She did not wait for a reply, continuing down the stairs with a lopsided smirk.

Nayla felt comforted by the knowledge that she had extracted suitable revenge for the stranger, Alistair, having kept her up late the night prior.

She stopped in her decent, noting with a sigh that there was a considerably large stain on the floorboards from the night before. The timber had soaked up most of the bile prior to having a chance to clean it before finally turning in for the night. Nayla would have to completely revarnish the oak stairs to properly conceal the damage her drunken patron had caused the night before. She was in no rush to do so, however, the day being too nice to be cooped up inside with the fumes of the smith's polish as her only company.

When she bounded into the taverns main Nayla was greeted with the sight of numerous families enjoying a late breakfast, the usual sound of Elaine busy in the kitchen, and a welcoming rush of light that was in part due to the door being wedged open on its hinges.

Today Nayla bore her usual cotton tunic, once a rich cream, now a ruined yellow, the frayed laces undone to accommodate for the heat of the day. She bore a leather thong in her unruly brown hair, pulling it away from her already clammy neck. Her old patched breeches were rolled above her knees, and her tattered loafers had been worn in place of her usual boots to further allow for the warm weather. The brown tattoo of a simple whorl of lines that curled from the corner of her right eye, down the side of her neck, across her shoulder to finish at the base of her back was nearly indistinguishable amidst the dirt that coated her face.

"About time, girl," an older, exasperated voice called.

Elaine's lined face peered out from behind the green cotton material that hung from the kitchen's doorframe, her cheeks a balmy rose. Her thinning white hair was a wild bun today, pulled away from the stern grey eyes that now assessed Nayla.

"Better late than never," Nayla retorted.

The slight elf made for the kitchens; the patron's of the tavern all the while pointedly ignoring her cheerful expression and mockingly polite nods of greeting. It was a habit of Naylas; paying no notice to the derogatory terms and harsh eyes to willingly glide through life as if all others were her equals. It served the purpose of either enraging the patrons, or insulting them to the point that they would pay no further heed of her. Either suited her fine; she would not bow to anyone.

Elaine warned her, on more than one occasion, that such a trait would be the death of her.

Nayla pulled back the curtain once she reached the kitchen's entrance, the sudden heat of the boiling pots and open oven causing her to stop in the doorway. She lent casually on the doorframe, waiting silently as she appraised her broken and dirty nails in an openly blasé manner.

"Make yourself useful, girl," Elaine ordered gruffly.

Nayla looked up, only to find an apron being thrown at her head, the grotty item of clothing wrapping around her face. With an indignant huff she pulled the offending apron off of herself.

"You're lucky William is out at the market," the older woman started, her tone kinder. "He'd have your hide."

Nayla smirked, shaking her head as she tied the apron around her waist.

"When he stays up til the early hours of the morning, brushing puke from the floor, he can take my hide. It'd be fair and square."

Elaine tutted, the wooden spoon she'd been previously using to stir a pot of stew being waved before her in warning.

"Remember your place, girl," she berated.

Nayla chuckled, the warning more of a routine than any real threat when coming from the elderly woman.

"He's selling that bracer, yeah?" Nayla queried curiously.

Elaine returned to stirring the large pot, her back to Nayla. She nodded her head, bending forward to sip at some of the stew from the wooden spoon before returning to the steady stirring motion.

"The Shem who traded it in said it was made of Silverite," Nayla stated.

She pushed back the curtain, evaluating the state of the tavern; she would need to be out there soon to start clearing away tables and taking more orders.

"Laced with magic, at that," Elaine replied flippantly.

Nayla's eyes darted back to the other woman, frowning deeply.

"Magic?" she pressed.

"Aye," Elaine replied evenly.

Her voice was stern when she continued, her back still to Nayla.

"Is the man who gave it to you still here?"

Nayla's frown deepened, her head tilted to the side as her fingers unconsciously kneaded the hem of her apron.

"Last I checked," she replied slowly. "He didn't look in any state to be going too early."

Elaine did not reply for a time, wiping the spoon on her own apron before lifting the hefty pot from atop the lit stovetop and placing it on the bench. She reached above her head for the ladle that hung from one of the numerous metal hooks attached to the ceiling.

"Keep your distance, girl," she firmly issued. "There's more to him than he's letting on. That's seldom a good thing, in my experience."

Nayla rolled her eyes, a smile playing at her lips. They had their fair share of odd and shady individuals. There were those that sent shivers up the length of Nayla's spine, and those that could create a wide berth around their table even on the most rowdy of nights. In her opinion, the man was not the worst patron they'd had, by far.

"Now get to work and earn your keep, you spoilt brat," Elaine ordered curtly.

The woman motioned toward the main of the tavern, a subtle smirk present on her chapped lips.

The remainder of the morning and lunch was uneventful for Nayla. She spoke no more of the hooded man from the night before with Elaine, and there was no trouble from the regular patrons. She cleaned tables, washed dishes, and served herbal drinks, ciders, and stew without complaint.

The setting of the sun brought with it a city guard, spent loggers and foul-smelling fishermen. Such company was the case most nights. At the bar was the man from the night before, hunched over the countertop with his hood pulled forward to conceal his face once more.

Nayla stepped behind the bar, reaching for a mug.

"What will you sell for a drink this time; your boot, a kidney?" she joked.

The man grunted, as friendly as he had been the night before.

"With the money you can get with the bracer, I'm sure you can afford to shout me another round of drinks," he retorted flatly.

Nayla shrugged, filling the mug with ale and sliding it across the bar to his awaiting hands. He remained silent, merely nodding his head in way of thanks.

"Elf," a deep voice summoned.

The rude beckon had originated from one of the lone city guards. The man rested casually against the top of his table, a careless smirk plastered upon his face. His state of arms, the single sword strapped to his belt, and the insignia of the yellow wyvern worn on the back of his trademark blue cloak signified him as such a man.

Nayla groaned, hating close encounters with the city guards.

Some guards she'd met seemed to be decent folk. She guessed that it was her elven heritage and their added social power that stirred trouble when she was in close proximity with most of them.

"Ale?" she called in neutral questioning.

His disquieting smile grew as he nodded.

Nayla sighed as she poured his drink, fighting the child-like urge to add some of her secret recipe of spit to the beverage. She breathed deeply, her skin tingling under his intent stare as she approached his table. She signalled that she'd be a moment to a table of impatient dockworkers.

She lent before the city guard, cringing at the obvious smell of alcohol already on his breath. It seemed he'd found a way to pass his time during an apparently uneventful shift that day. His breath, so close to her, caused goosebumps to rise of her skin.

Nayla jolted when a forceful hand rested on the arm she had been using to serve his drink. He chuckled, pulling her closer to him with a sharp tug. Her body tensed unconsciously, her heart hammering so loud she could hear it. Blood rushed to her face and all she could do was blink mutely.

"I was after some company for one of the rooms upstairs, elf," he breathed into her pointed ear. "You'll do."

The clang of a coin purse being dropped onto the table top resounded in Nayla's ears, her eyes widening in shocked humiliation. She felt his free arm snake around her waist, his unbidden fingers curling around her upper thigh in a domineering grip.

The patrons of the tavern uncaringly paid no heed to the treatment of the elf, continuing with their relaxed talking and drinking without a second glance in her direction.

His fingers suggestively caressed her leg, before cupping her backside and squeezing tightly. Her senses returning to her, Nayla jumped, pushing away from the man with an indignant yelp. She took a step back, the man's hand still tightly wrapped around her wrist.

The city guard stepped up with her, his eyes dark and threatening, tugging her closer to him once more. On an impulse, she pulled back her free hand, bringing it around and slapping the larger man outright on the cheek. The ringing sound of her palm hitting his strong jaw resounded within the bar, many people turning with shocked expressions. His head snapped back, a light red mark already forming on his pale skin.

Hand stinging, Nayla's shoulders rose and fell heavily, her breath haggard and eyes frantic as she tried, to no prevail, to pry the man's strong fingers from her wrist.

"Leave her be," a voice called from the bar.

There was a slur to his words, evidence of his drunken state. The force behind the demand, however, was unwavering. Nayla's eyes darted to the man, Alistair; the hunched figure still sitting casually atop his stool.

The city guard appraised Alistair's greater bulk before throwing aside Nayla's hand with a gruff curse. He snatched up his coin purse roughly, stuffing it back into the confines of his leather breaches, before rounding on Nayla once more. He held a finger sternly before him, the gesture one of warning. His jaw clenched in ill-repressed anger.

Nayla stumbled back hurriedly, her back coming in contact with the solidness of the bar. With a staged hiss she spat at the city guard's feet. Whispers from onlookers were passed around, but nobody stepped forward to do or say anything.

"Mark my words," he started, his nostrils flaring, "You'll regret your audacity, knife-ears."

Without another word, the man stormed from the tavern, slamming the door closed in his wake. It did not take long for the usual ambience of the tavern to return to normal.

Once she was sure he was gone, Nayla heaved a hungry breath of air. Her hands shook and her legs wavered, but she held onto the bar's counter for support in a white-knuckled grip.

"Another ale," her saviour's voice rang offhandedly.

She managed a disbelieving laugh, before going about the rest of her night on unsteady legs. Every moment she had to spare, Nayla would chance a hurried glance at the tavern's main door, jumping every time a new patron entered.

She went about stacking the chairs and sweeping the sand carried by dock-worker's boots once all the patron's had left with no further occurrences of the ilk.

To Nayla's relief, the city guard did not return that night.

Alistair had found his own way to his room once she had ushered the last of the patron's out. She'd offered no comment when she caught him helping himself to a bottle of brandy from behind the bar before leaving for the stairs.

She felt no safer once inside her room; quickly going about latching the door and single window. She slept by the door that night, having pushed the mattress in front of it. Such actions did nothing to put her mind at ease as she unwittingly replayed the city guard's ringing words of warning. She slept fitfully, tossing and turning before being swept into a nightmarish Fade.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Dragon Age and all of the world's characters belong to Bioware.

Enjoy.

Chapter 3

By the time the tavern quietened the next day it was mid afternoon, the sun at its highest. Nayla had just finished the last of the dishes and was carrying the metal trough of dirty water in a bowlegged, white-knuckled stance. She backed out of the tavern's front door, her cheeks flushed and her breathing shallow.

She stifled a mirthlessly unsurprised chuckle when nobody offered her any assistance.

A man pushed past her struggling form into the tavern main, uncaring of her struggling predicament.

"That's okay; I'm fine," she quipped.

He frowned, looking over his shoulder at her smaller form with an indignant huff. He dusted his clothes off before purposefully continuing to the bar where Elaine was serving the odd drink to warm patrons taking a break from work.

Alistair had taken his usual place by the bar, his presence during the day silently catching Nayla off guard. He'd nodded his head curtly in way of greeting, his eyes hazy and bloodshot, and his breath and clothes reeking of assorted liqueurs.

Nayla continued out of the tavern into the unrelenting light of the day, the glare of the sun causing her to squint. Water sloshed unchecked from the sides of the trough as she continued to the side of the tavern where the alleyway was located. The cool shade of the small alley gained a sigh from the perspiring elf's lips.

Nayla hobbled to the end of the alley, tipping the murky water onto the cobblestone ground. Once she had emptied it, she dropped it to the ground with a resounding clang of metal. She dropped to the cool floor in an exhausted heap, her back resting against the solid brick wall of the neighbouring smithy. Closing her eyes she breathed deeply, thankful for the moment of relief.

The moment did not last long, however, the sound of a humourless chuckle causing her to pry an eye open. A large figure stood at the entrance of the alley, the bulk of the man evident even at this distance. He was silhouette was outlined by the blinding glow of the days sun.

She groaned quietly as she propped herself up, her muscles aching in protest. Heaving herself to her feet, Nayla squinted as she unsuccessfully tried to identify the man. He casually began to approach her, his pace leisurely. It was only once he had reached the shade of the alley that she could properly evaluate the man.

Her heart hammered in her chest as recognition settled in; his predatorily dark stare, the strong jaw, and his cropped brown hair. It was the man that had given her trouble the night before. Once more, he wore the uniform of the city guard, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his single sword as he slowly approached her.

The water trough from before forgotten, Nayla darted forward, giving the man a wide birth as she raced past him. He did not give chase, she noted curiously, looking briefly over her shoulder. Instead, a smirk had formed on his cruel lips.

When Nayla looked back ahead of her she realised why.

Two more men; one broad and tall, the other narrow, blocked her only means of escape. Nayla felt a pit of despair form in the recess of her stomach as she slowed to a stop. The two men advanced slowly, looks of sinister glee evident on their faces.

Nayla could make out the entrance of the tavern from where she stood; numerous other men marked with the insignia of the city guard casually making their way through the front door and out of her sight. There was nobody to help her. She was alone in this.

She backed away from the two men, shaking her head with wide eyes of unadulterated fear. Nayla's heart hammered in her ears and her whole body shook.

"Please," she begged through a chocked sob.

She admitted a shriek when her back came in contact with the man from the night before, his rough hands forcing her to turn and face him.

His wandering hands caressed Nayla's shaking figure, greedy fingers running down the length on her side, sending convulsions of equal parts disgust and fear through her immobile form. The encouraging laughter from the two guards behind Nayla fell onto deaf ears, her hammering heart the only thing she could hear.

As suddenly as his hands had begun their unwanted exploration of her body, they stopped. The respite did not last long, however. Nayla hissed when she felt his hand encircle her wrist. Snarling in newfound courage, she pulled with all of her might. Her attempt at escape merely brought a threatening grin to his lips.

He threw her to the cold, hard ground of the alley; her head hitting the cobblestone before her body did. She skidded for but a moment before her back collided with the wall and she stilled.

Nayla curled in on herself with a small whimper of pain, dark spots invading her wavering vision. She felt someone rolling her onto her back, unable to focus on the dark figure that towered above her crumpled form. She did not fight off the growing darkness, letting her eyes droop closed of their own accord.

Everything was calm for Nayla for but a moment, coming to with a shock when a rough backhand was issued to her cheek, rocking her head forcefully to the side. She cringed, hissing as she forced her eyes to open and focus on the haze around her. The blurs gained colour, followed shortly by shape; her senses returning to her in an overwhelming wave of pain.

The man lowered himself onto Nayla's struggling form, her legs kicking at the ground beneath her in a futile attempt at escape. Her arms were trapped, help above her head by the wrists beneath but one of his larger hands. She could not bring herself to look at him, ashamed of her fear and weakness.

His free hand trailed along her cheek in mock tenderness, lifting her head by her pointed chin so that their eyes were forced to meet. His cruel eyes silently ridiculed her. His fingers left her chin; allowing Nayla's head to drop back to the side in defeat. Tears, so foreign to her once proud body, began forming unchecked from the corners of her unfocused eyes.

She didn't care anymore. She could do nothing to stop this. She was weak.

His hands began to roam lower, circling the tender flesh of her breast. The material of her tunic was thin, clinging to her clammy form. She hissed in reply, feebly trying to arch her body away from his wandering hand. Her reluctant response only seemed to encourage the man.

He chuckled, a deep sound that Nayla knew she would not easily forget.

"You'll learn your place, elf," he promised ruthlessly.

She tried to kick her legs, but his heavy form kept her firmly pinned to the hard ground. She shut her eyes tightly, willing it to be over soon.

He tore at the neckline of her tunic, exposing her slight form to his harsh eyes. Her chest shone with perspiration, rising and falling with her haggard breathing. His hand was hungry and demanding when he began to roughly knead her exposed breast. He chuckled darkly when her body betrayed her; her pink nipples swelling and hardening in response to his unbidden attention.

"Like that, elf?" he spat through a laugh.

Nayla held her breath, holding back the sob that threatened to escape her shuddering form.

An animalistic growl rumbled from deep within him, his hand snaking down the length of her body to rest on her waist. His unkind fingers left a trail of goosebumps in their wake. With a chuckle, he reached between her legs, firmly cupping her sex through the thin material of her breeches. She gasped, her eyes snapping open as her whole body tensed. She arched her body away from his unrelenting hand, squirming desperately from beneath his hefty form.

Ignoring her protest, he repositioned himself; removing his hand as he forced a knee between her legs, prying them apart. His fingers found the frayed laces at her waist, pulling at the stubborn knots. Nayla felt his grip on her wrists slacken with the distraction that the knots posed.

In one fluid motion she pulled her hands free of his grip. She placed her palms on his broad chest, pushing with all of her might, shouting with the effort.

What happened next surprised Nayla as much as it did her human assailant.

He was propelled off of her struggling form with inhuman force, blindingly bright volts of electric energy shooting from her open palms. It blasted instantly into his ashen pale body.

He landed with a heavy thud metres from the gasping elf.

Shouts of surprise were issued from the two city guards standing watch at the entrance of the alley, rushing towards their fallen comrade.

Nayla backed away from the men, scrambling to her feet in a panicked rush. Dust coated her whole body, her cheeks streaked from unbidden tears. Her tunic hung loosely from her trembling form, her curves barely hidden from unwanted eyes. Her chapped lips wavered, her brown eyes wide in honest fear.

She held her shaking hands before her, palms up. Her tan skin remained unmarred, bar for the usual rough calluses. Her hands remained in front of her; shaky and foreign.

The two men crowded their unmoving companion, one crouching at either side of him. One shook his arm, calling out to him, willing a response. All the while, the other remained silent; an unsteady finger to his throat.

The man's eyes were closed, and a small pool of blood had begun to form around the base of his skull.

Nayla bit her lip, the ghastly sight of the blood awakening her senses as her grasp upon reality returned to her. This was her one chance at escape. She started carefully, on light feet, giving the men a wide berth as she made a dash to the alley's only exit.

Then, Nayla sprinted, her stomach in her throat and the cobblestones beneath her feet a blur. She looked over her shoulder when she heard one of the men shout, noticing her attempt at escape. They were still so close. They were so much bigger than her. She knew she wouldn't make it before they reached her. Still, she did not slow.

She felt the air leave her lungs in an unchecked cry of terror when she charged head-on into someone solid. Heaving a great gulp of air, she stumbled back. Her skin was crawling, her instincts still screaming at her to run. Strong fingers curled around her upper arms, pulling her at arms length from the solid form of the far larger man that held her.

Nayla's shoulders fell, her eyes closing in silent defeat.

She did not pray to the Maker. She would not pray to someone that had allowed this to happen to her, someone that had allowed this to happen to her people. Even in her final moments she would not pray.

.. .. ..

"Thank the Maker for alcohol," Alistair slurred to himself.

He chuckled over the rim of his mug, his stomach warm and his eyes unfocused. He downed the last of his mug in a boisterous tip of his head, the world around him spinning after such an attempt.

The older woman whom had been serving him up until that point had left moments before, disappearing through the door behind the bar. The elf had yet to return.

Alistair's frown was deep as he pushed aside his empty mug. The offending item tipped onto its side, rolling in a circle atop the bar before finally stilling a few feet from where he sat. With a defeated sigh, he made a show of placing his hands onto the counter top, using the support to heave himself into an upright position.

"Fine then, I'll help myself if nobody else will," he huffed indignantly.

He swayed for but a moment, using the countertop as support as he made his way behind the bar.

"No way to treat a Prince," he muttered to himself as an afterthought.

He reached under the bar, pulling forth a tinted glass bottle, half filled with a clear liquid. The acidic smell of the alcohol caused his eyes to water. He smirked before tipping some of the contents into his mouth. The liquid burnt his mouth and throat, his eyes widening in surprise at the sheer strength of it. He spat it onto the floor, wiping the back of his hand across his beard with a grimace.

He spent a moment swirling the bottle before his curious eyes, before shrugging and downing an even larger mouthful of the foul liquid. He gave a hearty belch before placing the bottle back onto the shelf where it rocked dangerously.

Alistair stood upright once more, the tavern dancing before his unfocused eyes and his stomach churning. So he stood for some time, oblivious to the events that went on about him, staring aimlessly ahead as he lent against the bar.

It was only when a large group of rowdy men pushed through the front door of the tavern that Alistair was shocked from his silent trance. They were all healthy-looking young men, all of which were clad in the same uniforms.

The blonde man frowned, recognising the blue cloaks and tidy uniforms.

The group of city guards helped themselves to a set of tables, pulling the two closer together to allow for more room. They laughed loudly amongst themselves, uncaring of the other patrons.

Alistair's stomach churned as he recalled the events of the night before in segments. The mistreatment of the elf by one of the guard's hands left him with a bitter taste in his mouth, and reminiscing about the event had brought a disapproving frown to his face.

His frown deepened, remembering that the elf had recently left out of the very same door. She might have crossed paths with them, he found himself realising.

She might be in trouble.

He shook his head, clearing away his troubling thoughts. Stumbling forward once more, he dropped himself onto the barstool, the dry timber creaking with the effort.

No, she was fine, he assured himself.

Undermining that exact sentiment, he unconsciously found himself watching the entrance of the tavern for her return. Realising what he was doing, Alistair sighed deeply, running a rough hand over his face.

Moments passed before he shook his head roughly once more.

Placing his palms upon the bar in sudden determination, Alistair hefted himself upright. The effort left him with a distinct feeling of vertigo that he stubbornly shrugged off.

Swaying unsteadily on his feet he stumbled towards the tavern exit, unheeding of the table of city guard's calculating eyes on his bulky and noticeably armed form.


	4. Chapter 4

Thankyou everyone for your encouraging reviews, they are very appreciated. They, along with constructive critocism, is very welcome.

As always, I do not own the world, nor do I own Alistair.

* * *

Chapter 4

"Are you alright?" Alistair pressed of the trembling elf.

Nayla had blindly charged into him, almost knocking Alistair from already unsteady feet. With his words he shook her small frame, urging her to respond.

Alistair's words had rung with a newfound clarity; the scene that he had stumbled upon having chasing away the alcohol induced fog that had haunted him mere moments earlier.

She had attempted to free herself from him initially, but his resistance had led to her current state of still. Her shoulders were slumped in silent defeat, her eyes firmly shut.

Upon hearing his voice, however, her eyes snapped open.

Nayla had given up all hope of escape, all hope of survival. As such, she did not know how to react to the identity of the large man before her.

Of one thing she was certain; she felt no safer in this stranger's arms.

She peered over her shoulder with large eyes, firmly held in place by Alistair. The two guards had slowed upon the unforseen arrival of the foreigner. They cautiously approached the small elf and towering man, the ring of their freshly unsheathed blades echoing off of the alley's close walls.

Nayla's heart pounded rapidly, her breathing shallow and forced. Her eyes were trained upon that of their blades, disbelievingly shaking her head.

"No," she whispered. "Please no."

Alistair swayed on his feet as he loosened his hold upon Nayla's arm. He stepped forward, putting himself between her and her assailants. The unsteady sway of his body was almost impossible to detect to the untrained eye. Almost. She stumbled as he forcefully shielded her body with his arm, pushing her further behind his bulky form, admitting an unheeded gasp from her lips.

Nayla's slender ears twitched, the sound of patron's leaving the Yellow Wyvern drawing her attention.

_Help_, she found herself hoping. _People might not bat an eye in my direction, but they might for a fellow human. Just maybe_, she wished.

Risking a glance in the tavern's direction, Alistair's imposing form buying her the wanted time; she felt all scraps of hope leave her.

Guards.

As hard luck had it, it was the rest of the guards, and they were all looking directly at her.

Some bore wide eyed looks of surprise, whilst other's brows were furrowed in glares of outrage. None scared Nayla more than the look of realisation that slowly drew upon all of their faces as they took in the form of their fallen comrade.

"The drunks defending her," the taller of the approaching men hissed. "He's defending the murderer. Get them. Get them both!"

Grasping the stranger's forearm, Nayla tugged anxiously. He didn't move, merely admitting a small, humorous chuckle that did nothing to settle her nerves. With a cry of frustration, Nayla didn't offer him another glance.

_Stupid human,_ her thoughts raged. _You chose this. I didn't. _

Heart pulsing, she raced from the alley in a burst of fear driven speed, the guard's alarmed shouts and issued orders ringing in her ears. She heard a disgruntled shout, deep and booming, like a battle cry, but she didn't offer the sounds any attention. Nayla could only afford to focus on her escape.

It was only when an eerie laugh surpassed all other noise that Nayla offered the alley one final glance.

It had come from Alistair, the bulky human wielding a length sword in a two-handed grip. Two men lay sprawled at his feet, another currently being felled by the blunt of the blade to the top of his head in a trained downward arch.

_Insane human! _Her thoughts shouted. _Run. Hide. _

"The elf," a gruff voice barked. "Idiots; get the elf!"

The sight of three guards breaking off from the horde of men that surrounded the laughing Alistair was all Nayla needed to set her on track again. She spun away from the guards, catching sight of a blade penetrating the folds of Alistair's cloak in her peripheral vision.

She sharply turned the corner, running out into the streets and away from the tavern, away from the guards.

She ran from the man who had saved her life and paid dearly for the favour.

Nayla continued to run long after the sound of the guard's calls and metal clad boots had ceased. It was only when she could run no more that she hid, coming out when the moon was at its highest and the streets were at their quietest.

The elf shed no tears as she crept through her town under the guise of darkness, keeping to the shadows like a common criminal. Nayla dare not make a sound, lest the town's patrols find her.

The thought to leave town immediately had occurred to her, but such a course of action was no safer than staying. To stay meant inevitable capture followed by imprisonment or worse. To go was just as ludicrous. The wilds outside Gwaren were dangerous indeed; news of bandits and cautionary tales of straggler darkspawn groups sending chills cascading up Nayla's spine.

As such, Nayla returned to the tavern. Such a decision was not made due to any hopes of feeling safe in the Yellow Wyvern. No, nowhere was safe for her kind. Nowhere was safe for her. She'd never delude herself with such an endangering thought again. Nayla could not think of it as a home, merely another building filled with humans.

Nayla's reasons for a hasty return were far more practical than early-set nostalgia.

If Nayla was going to survive, she'd need money. She'd have to buy food, clothes, shelter. She'd buy _protection_. She wouldn't let this happen again. She couldn't let this happen again.

The Silverite gauntlet was Nayla's motivation to return.

She was going to steal it.

With a dry smile the hardened elf padded through the empty streets of her childhood, intent on stealing any hopes of prosperity from the one person whom had ever shown her the barest hint of kindness.

_I'm already a murderer_, she reasoned. _What's a little petty theft in light of that?_


End file.
